Vivienne calmed down.
She took a deep breath and slowly turned her head to face the man who held the sword against her throat. Her eyes were cold now. Sharp.
"Get that fucking sword off me," she said in a low, clear voice.
The man hesitated for a moment. Then he turned to the woman behind him.
The woman nodded calmly. "Étienne," she said softly. "Don't frighten her. Vivienne is family."
The man, Étienne, gave a small nod. Without a word, he lowered the sword. His hands dropped to his sides.
Vivienne let out a breath. Not in relief. Just in quiet control. She brought her hand up to her neck, brushing her fingers gently across the skin, checking for scratches. Luckily, there were none. Just a faint sting where the blade had been.
She didn't look at either of them.
She turned instead to the bar full of customers who had gone strangely quiet, eyes darting toward her, then away again.
"Don't worry," she said with a little smile, raising her voice just enough for the nearest tables to hear. "They're family. That's just their way."
A few nervous laughs floated through the air. Someone lifted a glass and muttered something about dramatic cousins.
Vivienne turned her back to the room and said, "Follow me."
Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she led the way. Down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the wine cellar. It was cool and quiet inside. The air smelled of aged oak and fruit. The only light came from a single lamp swinging gently above the barrels.
Once they were inside, Vivienne spun around. Her eyes burned with fury.
"You better have a good enough reason," she said, voice icy, "to burst into my bar, interrupt my business, and point a fucking sword at my throat in front of my customers."
The woman didn't flinch. She smiled. Calm. Smooth. Almost fond.
"It's been two years, Vivienne," she said. "You look beautiful."
Vivienne rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out of her skull. She crossed her arms, shifted her weight to one hip, and gave a sharp, mocking smile.
"Oh, cut the bullshit," she said. "Tell me why you're here, Madame Mireille."
She raised her brow now, her voice turning playful, but sharp as a knife.
"You're not here because of last time, are you? To get revenge on me?"
Mireille laughed softly. She stepped forward, her dress swaying lightly behind her.
"No," she said. "I'm here to make you a proposal."
Vivienne's eyes narrowed. She reached for a bottle of wine resting on a low shelf. Her fingers wrapped around the neck of it, but she didn't open it yet.
"What proposal?" she asked slowly.
Mireille's voice was calm, almost too calm. "I need your expertise. I need you to help me steal a certain golden treasure locked inside a duke's palace."
Vivienne froze.
The wine bottle stopped halfway to the table. Her hand stayed still, then slowly lowered it back down. She looked at Mireille.
Her whole face had changed. The usual charm was gone. The amusement disappeared.
"No," she said.
One word. Firm. Unshakable.
Mireille blinked. "No?"
"No," Vivienne repeated. Her voice was quiet now. Flat. Like stone.
"I'm not doing that. I'm not robbing spoiled nobles anymore. Especially not a duke. Have you lost your mind?"
She shook her head slowly, brushing her hair behind her ear as she turned away.
"I'm sorry," she said. "But I want no part in it."
She began walking toward the door.
But Mireille's voice stopped her.
"Rue des Orangers," she said.
Vivienne stopped walking.
"Winter. Twenty years ago."
Her back stayed turned, but her shoulders tensed.
"I remember when I first saw you," Mireille continued, her voice softer now. "Stealing an apple. Just one small apple. You were only eight. And yet, so determined. So wild. So desperate to live."
Vivienne closed her eyes for a moment. Just one second. Then she turned around slowly.
Mireille stepped closer. Her voice dropped into something serious. Something heavy.
"You owe me your life, Vivienne."
She looked her up and down.
"That beautiful dress you're wearing. That perfume. This bar. This life."
Her voice was steady. Cold now.
"You wouldn't have any of it without me. You'd still be crawling through the gutters, stealing fruit, sleeping in alleyways. Or maybe you'd be dead. Rotten in a ditch somewhere."
Vivienne didn't say anything. Her face stayed calm, but her chest rose and fell just a little faster.
"I don't expect your loyalty," Mireille said. "But I expect your memory. I expect you to remember who saved you. Who made you what you are."
She stepped forward, so close now they were nearly touching.
"And just in case you forgot," she whispered, "there's a certain baron who has been looking for you."
Vivienne's eyes flickered.
"Two years now," Mireille said. "Two whole years. I heard he's willing to pay a thousand gold coins for your head."
She leaned closer.
"I wonder if your pretty face will still look pretty when you're hung from the gallows."
The words cut like glass.
Vivienne's fingers curled into fists, but she didn't move. She didn't shout.
Mireille stepped back, calm as ever.
"You're a very skilled woman, Vivienne. I always believed in you. I still do. That's why I'm here. Not for the woman who sells wine and picks pockets of drunk men."
Her eyes narrowed now, full of both warning and disappointment.
"I came for the woman who could steal the moon if she wanted to."
She turned and walked toward the cellar door. Her voice echoed behind her.
"I'll be waiting for you at L'Auberge de Minuit."
She paused.
"You have two days."
Then she was gone.
Vivienne stood still.
Her hands were shaking, but not from fear. From anger. From memory. From something deeper.
She stood there for a long time. Staring at the empty doorway.
Then she finally whispered to herself.
"Fuck."
And the wine bottle she had been holding slipped from her fingers and shattered across the stone floor.